Your husband was a hardworking man, and you knew it, you were as brilliant as him and accompanied him on most of his cases. The few times you didn’t, you were injured, exhausted or sick. But that also invited restlessness in him, frequently.

Frequently, sure, you said that, but it was rather an umbrella term for what really occurred sometimes— he’d get so consumed with work, so very consumed with work that it turned out that he’d stay up so very late. You couldn’t sleep as well without Sherlock because if he wasn’t getting sufficient sleep, your body decided it wouldn’t either. So he was there, spread on the chaise longue, looking the picture of perfection even with the frown lines that creased his brow from long hours.

Didn’t help that he looked so good that your brain was turning to mush, that you were short-circuiting in your place across a room over a man doing something simple, perusing a case. He was just handsome, with his blue eyes and casual position.

Unfortunately, the picture was too good to be true. Why did he worry you so? He had to get some rest sometime, that much was guaranteed, it was a matter of if he’d listen to you. Though you did yourself a favour and made your presence known, walking over and his eyes instantly averting from the case notes to you, soft smile playing on his lips as he situated you on his lap, legs across it, eyes loving like always. Your husband.

"My darling." Sherlock’s voice had a softness to it, as lo and behold, he’d looked up from the case with a raised eyebrow and slightly tilted smile, which was good. It was very good, at least you had a fighting chance of bringing him to bed.

"You should be in bed. " He murmured, unable to keep his eyes off you— how could he? You had to be the subject of his attention every time you were in the room, you were his beautiful, stunning wife. Sherlock couldn’t help it "Why aren’t you?"

Bed. Sleep. Concepts that didn’t exist to him right now.